


Battlefield

by ifthereisaZuknowitsME



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Comrades in Arms, Gen, Mild Gore, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifthereisaZuknowitsME/pseuds/ifthereisaZuknowitsME
Summary: The tree is rooted in dying soil and bone-shards and blood. Its bark carved with rough lines - each and every twine of grooves and fissures tells a story. One of them spins a short tale about four soldiers.
Relationships: Katsura Kotarou & Sakata Gintoki, Sakamoto Tatsuma & Sakata Gintoki, Sakata Gintoki & Takasugi Shinsuke
Kudos: 18





	Battlefield

The infamous White Yaksha descends the jagged hillside - he dances around the rush of enemy soldiers, his sword, a slice of light, caper and mince - the stream of blood washes over him in a demented ritual of abulation. Truly, within the heart of the night and corpses, he has transformed into a wraith singing for vengeance. His crazed eyes search for his comrades as he scourges the Bakufu army. By the time he reaches the road splitting the hills, the mercurial tides of his adrenaline recedes, leaving him with sprained wrists and a body that teeters between deep-rooted exhaustion from his sickness and fighting, and screaming agony thrusting between every movement of muscles. Underneath the vast canopy of night, the cowardly moon peeks through its curtain of clouds, and with its ghostly luminescence it reveals his scars. Gintoki grits his teeth. The hilt of his sword imprinted on his hands, bloody and raw.

He hears bombs going off in succession in the distance, boulders finishing off the goal of obstruction by clamorously filling the path. Katsura’s ingenuity has saved the livelihood of their base and their soldiers in it.

He speeds through the road. 

They had the best position - their base is in the center of petals of large hills, each hill has their outpost and a small base of archers on the standby, granting them the bird eye’s view to kill. But even then the black swarms, brazenly waving their flags of allegiance to Bakufu, had stormed the fort, slaughtering them all, and his idiot friends just had to go into the thicket of chaos far from their base. 

They’ve sent most of the experienced away to fight another war on the other side of the country. Things have been getting dire, and they need all the able-bodied people they can get; that often means bringing in young boys. 

_Half_ of their men are fresh-faces whose only interaction with war are border skirmishes and bandits. 

Of _course_ his friends will not let them fight, they believe they can do damage control. They were overconfident - but his heart knowingly whispers ‘sacrificial’. And they left him behind because it was his own fault that he pushed his body too hard and fainted. 

If he finds them, you can bet on his teacher’s grave that he’s going to _throttle_ them.

Horror unfurls in his chest when he sees a lone knotted tree, the shade of the branches darker than night, harboring his friends who are backed into the rough bark by men lunging at them with daggers and swords. The shadow paints cobwebs over the horde. 

The supplies have been dwindling dangerously low in the past few days, they sent out groups to gather supplies and they never came back. He sees Takasugi parrying their attacks with clear strain - his armor is battered and beaten down, his clothes in tatters. Behind him, the slim pale frame of Zura is hunched over Sakamoto. 

“Hey dickhead, when were you planning on asking me for help?!” Gintoki yells, planting a firm foot on the back of one of the men and shoves him to the ground, ribs crunching underneath him to his satisfaction. Dodging a flurry of attacks, Takasugi glares at him as he throws a timely kunai at an unsuspecting throat. He takes that glare to mean _‘why the hell did you come here, asshole. You’re born with two ears and a brain and yet you don’t use either to ever fucking listen.’_

His progress is cut off when a dagger blazes down to kiss his face, blood quickly weeps from his crusted scabs on his lips. Nausea grabs hold of him for a second. Ears ring malevolently. Gintoki catches a glimpse of the man who threw the dagger - a smile of triumphant savagery warps into a sneer when Takasugi jabs his sword straight through his shoulder blade with a bloodlusted growl, Gintoki steadies himself and pounces for the enemy behind him, and jams his wakizashi in his eye, the short bulk of metal ruptures the back of skull, blood and bits and pieces of bones spray the air. 

The tide of men is endless and merciless, Gintoki and Takasugi are about to give out, but no one is saying anything, or showing the slightest sign of resignation. 

Parched for hope, their situation. 

Finally shoulder to shoulder with his brother-in-arms, Gintoki and Takasugi become the last line of defense for their two fallen comrades. It had taken a while for Gintoki to realize that the reason why the men haven’t left them is to kill _them;_ the quartet of military strength that have left lands with soldiers and political lords howling for revenge. 

Sakamoto weakly coughs, Gintoki steals a glance at his direction and his heart promptly stops. His hand resembles a flayed, tortured eaglet. Down to the middle the flesh is ripped in half, blood gush uncontrollably while the muscles spaz and twitch. He looks down to his chest - a wide partial gaping hole stares at him from behind Katsura’s obi. Katsura’s hands presses down on the wound with rags but he knows it isn’t enough. And Katsura, his face is so pale, if he blinks the man may slip away from the material world. His eyes are wide, too. He knows that Sakamoto won’t make it as well.

How long has he been tending to him? 

Takasugi, his skin showing shades of bruises and cuts to which Gintoki seethes at, answers the question for him, his voice barely above a whisper threading underneath the mayhem of swords and battle cries. “He’s been doing that for a while, I told him to take care of him - he isn’t in the best position either.” He deflects an oncoming kick to the groin and lashes the offender’s thigh with a swift swipe of his sword. Gintoki wrist strains, the pain blinds his eyes. 

“You don’t look so hot, too, Gintoki.”

He bares his teeth, and keeps on stabbing. He looks back at Katsura, the man has a gash running down from his collarbone to hip. Sakamoto’s brutalized hand lies near his heart. Rage crashes the ceiling of his distinct glacial calm, robbing him of breath and reason. Which one of these fuckers did this? They. Will. _Pay._

With their blood. 

His sword _sings._ Takasugi roars. Like a pair of foxes in a hen-house, their hunger for blood hums in their veins, and sudden clarity swoops down on them - they can see minute details, the twitches rippling under the smooth determination for murder on men’s faces, they can almost see what will happen before it happens. They keep going, going, going - they are machines well oiled for _genocide._

All of the men laid on dirt and a lake of blood. Gintoki’s vision is going black. Katsura sobs in despair and agony. 

Sakamoto is dead, a smile on his face. He feels like he lost a part of his soul.

( _They all did.)_

Gintoki trudges to the pair, he falls down on his knees next to Sakamoto and it didn’t take too long for the memories of his smile to engulf his heart and mind. Katsura’s breathing is heavy, his back thumps against the tree. In a decade into the future it will become a haunting memoir for all the lives lost. 

Takasugi stares into the distance, refusing to look at the men he failed. 

Katsura grabs Gintoki’s arms. He struggles to say something, blood pouring forth from his ashen lips. Gintoki possessively holds onto him in half-embrace, he slaps his face. Hard. “Hold on, Zura! Dammit, just - please, _please -_ ” 

It’s too late. 

One by one, they were all going to die here. They can’t go back, all the paths are effectively blocked. Takasugi and Gintoki are on the precipice of death - Katsura and Sakamoto are already over it. 

He closes his eyes. And waits. Death... it still seems so foreign to him, even though he had been molded in it. He looks across and gazes at Takasugi, a ghost flickering in the black horizon of the hills. His body is slotted perfectly between the two dead bodies of his best friends whom he had shared a lifetime of secrets, hardships, and joys with. And Takasugi...it makes sense that he would be the last one to go. Every night without fail he would watch over them while they sleep. Now he performs his nightly ritual. One last time.

The silence is deafening. 

And then, Gintoki tapers away, closely running after Sakamoto and Katsura in his dreams.


End file.
